[color=green][h2]Donatello De Rege[/h2][/color][hr]
[indent][b]August 18th, 2039, 10 AM
A nondescript supermarket, New York City[/b][/indent]
Cans. Empty. Bottles. Smashed. Packets. Torn. This place was well and truly wiped out. Not a single supply in sight that wasn't dirtied or discarded for faultiness. He had managed to find a single length of bandage that whoever came through here missed. His leg was feeling a little better for it. His nerves, however, certainly were not. If there was nothing here, then how far off could actual survivors be? What if they were mutant hunters? Or more raiders? Another bullet to the leg was an idea that didn't sound attractive to Donnie at all, given how the first one felt. His foot collided with a can and sent it squawking down one of the aisles, into the shelves. Maybe if he went toward the back of the store, he would find a management office of some kind that had been missed? These old supermarkets had older locks, it could be a cinch for him to just let himself in. Yeah, that is what he'd do. One foot in front of the other, he began to limp.

[color=green]"Hang the fuck on, boyo,"[/color] Donnie mumbled, stopping in his tracks in the middle of a former snack aisle. He felt that same can from before, the same weight, but on his shoulder this time. It occurred to him that there was an error in his previous thought. Cans didn't squawk. Cans didn't squawk at all. Donnie turned his gaze to the side to find a bird alighting upon his shoulder. A big, nasty-looking grey thing. Like an owl with a bad dye job. It squawked at him and he squealed back, swiping with the butt of his rifle. [color=green]"Fuck offa me, ya big buzzard shit!"[/color]

Donatello was not the smartest when he was afraid. Sometimes he could be pretty brilliant, but when he was afraid, his chances of brilliance went down the drain. He ran, or rather he limped, screaming into a wall at the back of the store. A loud thump sounded out, accompanied by the squawking and flapping of wings, before everything went dark for Donnie. There he lay, hidden behind a large crate, as some sort of mutated owl perched atop his head and watched for signs of motion.